


I Can't Hold It All In, If You Won't Let Me

by junkster



Category: Duran Duran
Genre: Car Sex, Height Kink, M/M, Reunions, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-23 18:44:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/625389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junkster/pseuds/junkster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the 2012 Duran Duran Christmas Fic-Fest, for the prompt:</p><p>
  <i>John/Roger, on a country vacation, sexytimes in the car.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Can't Hold It All In, If You Won't Let Me

**Author's Note:**

> **I know who requested this one and when I asked if there was a specific time she'd like it to be set, she requested Astronaut-era, so hopefully that comes across! <3**
> 
> **Please note that I am a not-very-well-travelled British person, so any mistakes pertaining to the setting of this fic just mean I haven't done enough research!**
> 
> **Title pinched from Delerium/Sarah McLachlan's 'Silence'.**

Ever since that first, fateful phone call from LA to Gloucestershire, John’s found it surprisingly easy to get used to having Roger in his life again. And it’s weird to even think of it in terms of ‘getting used to each other’ considering what a big part they played in each other’s lives all that time ago, but they really didn’t see much of each other in those wilderness years. It’s fair to say they’ve both changed a lot, but apparently not in the ways that matter. Roger is more confident now, able to hold his own with the press and when they have their inevitable inter-band arguments, but he’s still modest and thoughtful and considerate; still quieter than the rest of them.  
  
He’s surprised by how well they’ve aged, too, all of them. Obviously they’d had genetics on their side from the very start, but he’s amazed none of them have succumbed to male pattern baldness or grown a beer belly. Maybe there are a few grey hairs here and there, but that’s nothing a good dye job can’t fix, and besides, at least they’re growing old gracefully.  
  
Roger looks good, damned good, and John’s not afraid to admit it - not to himself nor to anyone else who happens to be around when the thought crosses his mind. Working on the farm has apparently done him no harm, if the size of his biceps are anything to go by. The first time they’d all met up at the studio, he’d turned up in jeans, a t-shirt and a leather jacket and managed to look effortlessly good, the short sleeves of the shirt hugging his arms, the well-worn material emphasising his broad shoulders. John knew he hadn’t been the only one eyeing him appreciatively at that point, having seen the unsubtle, slow sweep of Nick’s gaze burn its way up Roger’s body.  
  
So the attraction had hit him all over again, bam, and then for a while there’d been more important things to think about, like would they all get on and what the hell would they talk about and, shit, had this really been a good idea? The answer to which was yes, of course, it had been a bloody good idea, but that didn’t mean things were easy.  
  
Those squirmy, fluttery feelings had really started to rear their heads again after a week or so, when the endless talking and heart-to-hearts and outpourings of guilt and old feelings had turned into a sudden need to create something together. While Nick and Andy had started an argument about the direction they ought to be heading in for the album - Andy coming down on a much rockier side than Nick - John had been wandering around the studio, fiddling with his bass, playing random patterns that came into his head. Suddenly, whimsically, he’d played the first five notes from Careless Memories and Roger, sitting quietly behind his kit and watching the argument with interest, had turned his head, attention caught.  
  
He’d rapped out four sharp beats and John had looked up immediately, their eyes meeting across the room. He’d started playing again and Roger had joined him that time, that simple but mesmerising beat that drove the song and made John’s heart leap in his chest. Walking slowly closer, he’d held Roger’s eyes and picked up the pace ever so slightly, triumph twisting in his gut when Roger had followed him instinctively, staying in perfect time and rhythm. He’d done it again, and again, taking them faster and faster, like he was challenging Roger to lose it and all the while praying that he wouldn’t - and he didn’t. They hadn’t played together properly in so damned long, and there was Roger, reading his mind, recognising his signals.  
  
Coming to a halt right in front of him, John had gritted his teeth, the pace of it starting to hurt in that good, good way, that brutally quick beat, the muscles and tendons standing out in sharp relief in their arms with every flex and flick of the wrist. Their eyes had burned holes in each other until John had tilted his head back, euphoria flooding through him, that pleasure he always felt on stage taking him over. Roger’s eyes had closed, a notch of a frown between his brows as he concentrated on John’s rhythm, and then John had brought his gaze back down and waited for him to look at him again before ending it, the two of them finishing in perfect, perfect synchrony, Roger dropping his sticks with a clatter of wood on metal. In the new silence, broken only by the resonating hum of John’s feedback, they’d both breathed hard from exertion and emotion, the power of playing together again overwhelming.  
  
John had set his bass down against the nearest stack of amps and moved around to the side of the drum kit, leaning down and slinging both arms around Roger’s neck, pressing their foreheads together as one of Roger’s hands had curled around the inside of his elbow, squeezing gently. John had felt like they’d had some kind of mutual, musical orgasm, and god, it’d been a long time since he’d felt like that with someone. Way too long.  
  
Nerves had fluttered in his chest as he’d said quietly: “I’m so glad you’re back”, because he needed to say it. It needed to be said. And when he’d heard Roger sigh softly and looked up to see a faintly-harassed looking Nick watching them with a small smile, he knew he’d done the right thing.  
  
  
Things had been difficult for a while, what with them all living in different places, moving between LA, New York, London and so on. John had put Roger up for a while, enjoying showing him the perks of LA - the sunshine, the beautiful people, the pool in his garden...  
  
When Roger had expressed an interest in seeing some more of the area, John's immediate thought had been 'road trip!'. What better way to force them all to spend some quality time together again, than by packing them all into his car and taking them off to the Joshua Tree Park?  
  
Simon, apparently, had other things to do - or maybe just remembered the time John had dragged him out there once before, and they’d been stuck in the longest storm ever. Nick, upon hearing that they'd be spending the evening in the wilderness just for the sheer pleasure of it, laughed so hard John eventually just had to put the phone down on him. Andy had shown great enthusiasm...and then not turned up on the day. So John had looked at Roger, assuming he'd want to drop out at that point, and Roger had smiled at him, shrugged and said: "Just you and me then?"  
  
John had brought his landrover discovery out of hibernation from the garage - he’d bought it off a friend who’d sworn he’d need it for exploring the deserts around LA, and though he’s not had much cause to use it, he loves it too much to sell it on. It’s a manual, too, which is so much more natural to him than the automatics.  
  
Roger had smirked when he’d caught sight of it and mumbled something about a penis extension as he’d hopped up into the passenger side, to which John had reached out to thump him on the shoulder and shot back with a grin:  
  
“Sit down, take the weight off and try not to sit on it, you bitch. You'll be lucky if I don't mistake it for the gearstick."  
  
And great - they weren’t even out of his drive before he was thinking about Roger’s cock.  
  
  
So there they were, late December, a warm fifteen degrees and a low, clear sun in a cloud-scattered sky. Last time he’d come there’d been visitors everywhere, but since driving in that afternoon they’ve seen just one other car, full of hikers on their way up into the hills. Roger had brought him a bag full of aniseed balls all the way from London, heeding his complaint about never being able to find them in LA, and he sets them down in the drinks holder hole by the handbrake, smiling at the evocative scent of them.  
  
They stop in Lost Horse Valley to wander through the dusty rock outcrops and admire some of the biggest Joshua trees, with their outspread arms reaching up into the sun. John, who’s almost used to their strange, primitive structures by now, watches Roger instead - which is something he hasn’t been able to do for such a long, long time. He watches as he strokes the fingers of his right hand against rough bark, tilting his head back slightly in an almost unconscious movement as he basks in a patch of sunshine that picks out golden hairs on his forearms and a cut on the middle finger of his left hand, where he’d caught the skin setting his kit up a few days before. He looks peaceful and calm, and John has to resist the urge to back him up against the tree and feel the sunshine-warmth of him.  
  
“D’you like it here?” he asks, digging his thumbs into his pockets and glancing upwards as a Red-Tailed Hawk screams, lonely and echoing, way up above them.  
  
“It’s incredible,” Roger answers, distracted but earnest. “It’s like another world.”  
  
And John feels a certain pride in his chest at that, as if he’d created Joshua Tree Park himself or something. If he’s honest, he’s just pleased to get Roger’s blessing on California; he knows it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but it’s his home. And just like Roger’s opinion had mattered the first time John had shown him around his very first flat, it still matters now.  
  
“Let’s go and sit by Barker Dam for a while,” he suggests, inclining his head back towards the car. “You’ll like it there, too.”  
  
  
They drive on for a while longer before John feels the need for some music, and when Roger asks what he wants John asks for something nineties, something dancey, so Roger just puts the dance genre on shuffle and lets his ipod get on with it, sitting back just as The Prodigy kicks in, the punchy single version of ‘No Good’. They glance across at each other with a grin. Since getting back together they’ve discovered they have a mutual love of dance music, something about being slaves to rhythm that means a thumping bass and a quick drum beat can get their hearts pounding.  
  
“Fuck, man,” John says, shaking his head. “I got off my face so many times to this song. It was playing in every club, every night.”  
  
He feels the eyes burning into the side of his head as Roger says without judgement: “Good times?”  
  
“Yeah,” John answers honestly.  
  
They drive on in comfortable silence, the ipod managing to choose a succession of dance tracks that raise John’s pulse, nostalgia and memories hitting him smack in the chest. Both of them, if the stillness of Roger’s body’s anything to go by as he gazes out of the window.  
  
The Chemical Brothers come next with Setting Sun, then Primal Scream’s Swastika Eyes, then The Source and Candi Staton’s You Got The Love, then Grace’s Not Over Yet, then The Stone Roses’ Begging You. Not strictly a dance track, but the bass and drums are so fucking good, neither of them move to correct it.  
  
It reminds John of the jam sessions he and Roger have been having lately - jamming for the sheer pleasure of it, which kind of blows John’s mind. It’s been so long since he’s been able to do that with anyone, just sit down and hash things out, react to each other’s changes of rhythm and pace, reach something perfect and look up at each other with a shared grin of appreciation. Neither he nor Roger would call themselves the greatest in the world at their respective instruments, but it can’t be denied that they have something special when they play together. There’s something that happens when they jam together that makes John feel more creative than he’s ever been with any other drummer, and, to top it off, he just hasn’t had so much fun for ages. They spark off each other, plain and simple.  
  
He’s forgotten how much he enjoys watching Roger play, too. He’s not one of those drummers who’s actually a frustrated guitarist or frontman - drumming is what he loves to do, it’s in his blood, he’ll just go for hours like the duracel bunny if you let him. John loves watching every fluid movement of his body as he loses himself in it, watching his arms working apart and together, muscles flexing, that fixed look of concentration on his face.  
  
Yeah, John’s always understood why Nick has one of his keyboards directly facing the drum kit onstage.  
  
He smiles to himself as they come back around to The Chemical Brothers with Out of Control, the driving rhythm and hypnotic vocals.  
  
 _Sometimes I feel that I'm misunderstood,  
The river's running deep right through my blood.  
Your naked body's lying on the ground,  
You always get me up when I'm down.  
And it always seems we're running out of time.  
We're out of control,  
Out of control,  
Out of control._  
  
He reaches out and ups the volume a few notches, breathing in deeply when the bass thuds through every bone in his body.  
  
 _But it doesn't mean we're too far down the line.  
We're out of control,  
Out of control._  
  
He sees the lake up ahead, the setting sun turning the water to flames. They have to stop here, he knows, and knowing it makes a reckless feeling flutter in his chest. They’re going to stop, and he’s going to have to look Roger in the eye in this beautiful wilderness and try his hardest not to be attracted to him, not to pounce on him. Easy.  
  
Easy peasy.  
  
He clears his throat.  
  
Taps his fingers against the wheel.  
  
Tries to focus his mind on something else.  
  
“Hey, Rog?” he asks benignly, keeping his eyes on the road. “D’you think this is gonna work?”  
  
Roger turns his head to look at him. “The band?” he guesses astutely. At John’s nod, he goes back to looking out of the windscreen at the huge sky all around them. “Yeah,” he says eventually. “I think it’s gonna work. I think Nick and Charlie’ll kill us rather than let it fail.”  
  
John smiles. He’s been thinking the same thing himself, lately, feeling such a responsibility towards the two of them, who’ve taken a big chance on the rest of them. “Me too. I’m surprised how positive I feel about it, actually. Getting more positive by the day.”  
  
“You’ve always been positive, John,” Roger says evenly. “It takes a lot to knock you down.”  
  
John risks a glance across at him, insides twisting when he meets Roger’s eyes and sees the fond smile being directed back at him.  
  
 _It may be that I'm just scared of losing you,  
Or maybe it's the things you make me do.  
It seems to me we both should hang around,  
And raise the population of this town.  
And it always seems we're running out of time.  
We're out of control,  
Out of control,  
Out of control.  
Out of control._  
  
A glance in his rear view mirror shows the emptiness behind them.  
  
They’re entirely, utterly alone. If he’s going to make what could be a big fucking mistake of a move, now’s as good a time as any.  
  
He pulls over in front of the lake, jams the handbrake on, unclips his seatbelt and Roger’s at the same time and leans over to press their mouths together, shoving Roger up against the door, hard and hungry. Roger’s hands curl in the front of his shirt and John groans in approval when their tongues snake together, a jolt of arousal slamming through his belly and down. He shoves harder and Roger makes a quiet little gritted sound as something jabs into his spine, and he pushes back, cupping both hands against John’s jaw as they kiss deeply, frantically.  
  
“Fuck, John,” he breathes against John’s lips, hands sliding down to clutch at his collar tightly, holding him close.  
  
“Sorry,” John utters softly even as he moves closer, gripping Roger’s thigh with one hand and the back of his head with the other. “Sorry, sorry...”  
  
His tongue sliding hot and slick across the roof of Roger’s mouth prevents any answer, but Roger seems to shake his head just slightly, kissing him with wonderful familiarity.  
  
The ipod has failed in its task again by choosing Depeche Mode but John really, really doesn’t care, because Never Let Me Down Again is playing and it just spurs him on. Fuck, it hurts, though, this song hurts, a beautiful stabbing pain in his chest as he tightens his fingers in the short hair at Roger’s nape and tries to devour his mouth. Roger makes a soft, encouraging sound somewhere low in his throat, bringing his arms back up to hold John’s face in his hands, thumbs stroking across his cheekbones.  
  
When the keyboards start to fade out, John reaches behind him blindly to turn the sound off and then curls that hand around the back of Roger’s neck, pulling away just enough to meet his eyes, their breathing loud in the sudden, resounding silence. Roger looks rumpled and thoroughly-kissed, leaning back against the door. He lifts a hand to touch his lower lip softly with his thumb, swiping it underneath and dragging John’s hungry gaze there.  
  
“You taste aniseedy,” he tells John softly, dazedly, leaning forwards to kiss him again as the last word leaves his mouth, like he can’t stay away.  
  
John smiles against him, answering breathlessly: “Sorry for pouncing on you.”  
  
Roger shakes his head slightly, pulling away to slump back against the door. “It was coming for the last hour.”  
  
“More like _weeks_.”  
  
Head cocked, Roger asks in surprise: “Really?”  
  
“Pretty much since those first few days back in the studio together.”  
  
“It’s been so long, though...” Roger trails off, shaking his head in wonder.  
  
“I’ll be honest,” John says, keeping his body turned towards Roger, dark eyes serious. “I didn’t expect to still feel this...” he waves a hand between them, “...this thing, between us. But I do. It’s still there. It’s still really fucking there, Rog.”  
  
“Yeah,” Roger answers softly. “I know. I just didn’t think...”  
  
“Don’t. Don’t think about it. It’s easier that way.”  
  
“I can’t not think about things,” Roger says with an apologetic wince. “You know that.”  
  
“Yeah, I should know that by now,” John says with a fond smile. “And you should know that I’m really bloody bad at expressing myself about these sorts of things.”  
  
“But it’s nice to watch you squirm for a change, instead of me.”  
  
John grins: “You should have a little more sympathy, considering.”  
  
They both know Roger won’t make him say anything he doesn’t want to - Roger doesn’t do that; goes out of his way to _not_ make other people uncomfortable.  
  
“You can just show me, instead, if you want,” Roger offers with a faint smirk, and yeah - that works too.  
  
“Oh I’ll show you alright,” John promises with a wicked smile, eyeing up the gear stick and handbrake between them. “If I were younger and more graceful I’d climb onto your lap right now, but I think it might end in us rolling into the lake.”  
  
Roger tips his head, shrugs and points out: “There’s worse ways to go”, and John’s smile grows. Taking a deep, calming breath, he smoothes the creases out of the front of his shirt and inclines his head towards the lake.  
  
“Come and have a look at this. Since we came all this way.”  
  
  
Roger loves the remoteness of the countryside. It’s evident in the way he breathes the air in deep, and brushes his fingers over stones and tree bark and just looks like he belongs there, like it’s easier for him than the crowds of the city. They sit on the dry, dusty ground and he smiles faintly as his eyes wander across the surface of the water, the dark blue evening sky reflecting brightly back at them.  
  
“Bit different to Edgbaston, isn’t it?” John remarks, leaning back on his hands and gazing up at the darkening sky, the stars already bright and plentiful. After what just happened in the car, he’s finding it hard to focus on anything other than Roger’s body pressed up against his side, warm and solid.  
  
Roger shakes his head in wonder. “Imagine if you could go back thirty years and watch yourself walking along that grotty path by the reservoir and tell yourself you’d end up here, one day.”  
  
“I’d probably tell myself a lot of other things before that!”  
  
Roger looks at him with a knowing smile. “John ‘No Regrets’ Taylor? I doubt it.”  
  
John tips his head to concede the point, just as a wild, high yelp punctuates the silence, a whole swathe more joining in in the distance.  
  
“Coyotes?” Roger hazards a guess after a moment, looking far less perturbed than John knew he’d looked the first time he’d heard that other-worldly racket, like a woman screaming in the darkness.  
  
“Coyotes,” he agrees, listening to the eerie sound in interest. “Bit different to Edgbaston too.”  
  
“Just a bit,” Roger says with a smile, leaning in closer when John slides an arm around his back. “It’s so quiet here. Apart from them, I mean.”  
  
“It gets seriously busy in the Spring, so busy you can barely move without tripping over someone. Don’t think I’ve ever seen it like this before.”  
  
“I always thought you hated remote, quiet places?”  
  
“I did. I hated being anywhere on my own when we were kids. Silence was the enemy as far as I was concerned.”  
  
“And now?”  
  
“Now I’m older and not much wiser, but I can appreciate a bit of peace and quiet these days at least. I just need a little eye candy to keep my mind occupied, that’s all.”  
  
They turn their heads to look at each other at the same time and laugh as they almost nut each other. John tilts his head to the side and presses their lips together, soft and cool in the dusk air, kissing slowly as the coyotes howl. They sit there and make out like teenagers, no need to rush, just exploring each other’s mouths all over again, long and slow.  
  
One of Roger’s hands slides up under John’s shirt, pressing against the small of his back with strong, warm fingers, and John breaks the kiss to press their foreheads together, enjoying that supportive touch.  
  
“I should’ve brought some wood,” he says, “we could’ve made a fire, stayed out all night, watched the stars.”  
  
The night’s bringing a chill with it, the unbelievably clear sky and a cold, crisp breeze. He can feel goosebumps on Roger’s bare arms.  
  
“We can sit in the car and look, instead,” Roger suggests quietly. “We’ll be warmer in there.”  
  
John turns his head to look at him, but Roger’s eyes are fixed on the sky. A thrill slithers its way down his body. The car.  
  
  
They don’t even get as far as getting in before Roger decides it’s his turn to do the pouncing, one of his hands curling around John’s wrist, turning him and pushing him up against the hood. John looks at him with heat in his eyes, perching against the bumper, legs spread open to lower his height a little (and well aware of the extra added appeal of invitation it adds) and, as Roger closes in on him they’re almost face to face, dark eyes pinning each other.  
  
Roger’s hands curl around John’s wrists and move them to cross behind his back, holding his body open and vulnerable to his attack. John closes his eyes and resists the urge to surge against him, to break the hold. Roger’s hands are strong, his fingers cool where they press into the sinews and veins at the insides of his wrists, pressing against his pulse.  
  
He moves in closer, in between John’s legs, leaning in to find his mouth and then pausing, their lips barely touching, unbelievably, unbearably tempting. He lets go of John’s hands to curl his fingers around his thighs instead, slowly sliding his hands upwards, short nails scratching against the denim seam. John groans softly in his throat and leans in, just as Roger pulls back and smirks at his frustration.  
  
“Patient bastard,” John curses him with a smile, reaching out to grab the front of his white shirt and yanking him forwards into a hard kiss, loving the fact that Roger’s laughing at him, laughing into the kiss. He slides his hands down either side of the hard body pressing up against him and then down into the back pockets of Roger’s jeans, groping him in retaliation.  
  
Deft fingers are working on the buttons of his shirt between them, and he shivers bodily at the contrast between Roger’s hot, hot mouth and the cool air that drifts across his bare skin, and then a callused thumb brushes across one of his nipples and he gasps, breaking the kiss as he tilts his head back and pants, holding Roger’s intensely dark eyes. Those eyes drop, scanning him from his feet to his knees, slowing when they reach the obvious, hard outline in his jeans, then drifting up over his belly, chest, shoulders, mouth, eyes. John’s eyes drop to watch hungrily as Roger licks at his lower lip, wet from their desperate kiss, his hands resting lightly on John’s thighs.  
  
John glances down at himself, at the way his black shirt hangs open on either side of him, his skin pale in the moonlight. His body is one long line of shadows. When he looks back up, Roger is gazing at him with a wistful expression.  
  
“What’re you thinking about?” he asks, his voice as soft as the faint breeze that picks through the dust around them.  
  
Roger shakes his head, glancing up into his eyes with a small smile. “Just wondering how the hell your body hasn’t changed at all since we were kids, that’s all.”  
  
“Aside from four times as much chest hair, you mean?” John asks lightly, then adds with dubious curiosity: “Was that a compliment, or are you saying I look like a skinny teenager?”  
  
Lifting his hands to run slowly down over John’s sides and to his hips, Roger smiles, shakes his head and says sincerely. “You look amazing.”  
  
John reaches to take one of Roger’s hands and slides it down to press over the front of his jeans, remarking, mouth dry: “This didn’t just appear from nowhere, you know.”  
  
“Oh. Some things have changed then,” Roger says with a faint smirk, pressing in with the heel of his hand and watching John’s eyes close in pleasure.  
  
“Hey,” he says, voice strained, “I was young, I couldn’t help it. Besides, I seem to remember you used to get hard on stage just from playing.”  
  
“We all did, didn’t we?”  
  
“Yeah,” John laughs breathlessly, “that’s true. And it was much harder - ‘scuse the pun - for us three up front, let me tell you.”  
  
“There was so much testosterone, adrenaline...”  
  
“Those after-show handjobs still count as some of the best orgasms I’ve ever had.”  
  
“Yeah?” Roger asks, then agrees in amused realisation: “ _Yeah_. They were good, weren’t they. You usually went with Charlie, didn’t you?”  
  
“Whoever I could lay my hands on first,” John admits. “You, Charlie, Nick, Andy, a groupie, anyone. It was always best with one of you, though. You were the only four other people who understood that feeling, just needing to get off.”  
  
“I always loved your hands. Calluses in all the right places.”  
  
“Yeah, you too,” John says with a smile, closing his eyes as Roger’s hand strokes him slowly through the front of his jeans. He shivers. “C’mon, let’s get in the car. S’cold out here.”  
  
  
It’s cold out there, but it’s dark, and warm, and intimate inside. They climb into the back seat, and, as they both slam the doors shut, are surrounded by shadowy, soft-leather sleekness. John hears himself swallow in the sudden silence, then he leans forwards past the front seats and flicks on the little light in the roof, bathing them in a faint glow that sends long shadows across their faces, highlighting cheekbones and jaw lines and the nervous anticipation lurking in their eyes.  
  
As he sits back down, leather seats creaking, he turns his body to face Roger and reaches out to touch either side of his chest, pressing his fingertips into the soft, white cotton of his shirt. It’s supple and smooth against his skin, good quality and perfectly fitted to every contour of his body. John’s always had one hell of a clothes-kink, the sensual feeling of materials against skin and the sharp lines of designs - they all have, really, ever since the designers got their hands on them back in the eighties. They all know what makes them look good, and what makes each other look good. For John, clothes are like a wrapping for the main event, something to enjoy as much as what’s inside. Almost as much, anyway.  
  
He loves Roger like this, casual but effortlessly cool, the rips in his jeans in just the right places, his sleeves rolled perfectly up to his elbows to show off his wrists and forearms, the open collar of his shirt showing a teasing glimpse of his collar bones. His hair’s a little dishevelled since John ran his hands through it, but it just makes him look even more appealing; it goes with the slightly wild spark in his eyes. John wishes for a moment that they had a full size mirror, knowing that they must look good together. Roger with his dark hair and white shirt, himself with his black shirt and newly blonde-streaked hair, yin and yang.  
  
Feeling the thump of Roger’s heart in his chest, pacy and quick, he leans forwards and presses their lips together fully, enticing Roger’s tongue into his mouth as he starts unbuttoning his shirt, his own still hanging on his shoulders. He hums encouragingly into the kiss when he feels one of Roger’s hands find his fly, clever fingers blindly working open the metal buttons one at a time. He’s so hard now, painfully hard, and he gasps when Roger reaches in and wraps a hand around him. He breaks the kiss to lift his hips, cursing his tight jeans and hooking his thumbs into the waistband to tug them down slightly, easing the pressure and groaning in relief when Roger pulls him out of his boxers.  
  
Roger pushes him to sit back and moves to kneel over his hips, the stupidly expensive, wide seats meaning he’s got enough room to do it, looming over John with a hungry look in his eyes. For one, spine-tingling second it looks like he might drop to his knees in the footwell and take John in his mouth, but he lifts his gaze to meet John’s eyes and seems to change his mind, simply wrapping his hand back around John’s cock and stroking slowly.  
  
John leans in to kiss his throat and works his arms in between Roger’s wrists to grab the waistband of his jeans, ripping the buttons open with haste. It’s been a really long time since he’s just rutted up against someone, and fuck, he loves frottage. Of course, if he’s honest then there’s no kind of sex he doesn’t like, but doing this reminds him of doing it on the tourbus twenty years ago, and in nasty, creaky hotel beds, and backstage in dark corners. He used to love it, that combination of a handjob and the thrusting rhythm of sex, having a hard, thick cock sliding against his own. Andy’s tiny frame curling around him. Simon’s rough kisses. Nick’s infectious, soft laughter.  
  
He runs his tongue slowly up the column of Roger’s throat as he frees him from his boxers, reaching around to those back pockets of his jeans again and hauling him closer, listening to the shift of Roger’s knees digging into soft leather and inhaling sharply as they finally press together, hips so close.  
  
“We used to have great sex, didn’t we?” he says, low and murmuring against Roger’s skin, his hand curling around both of them and stroking.  
  
Roger tips his head back as he answers raw and low: “The best”, his hips rocking up against John’s. “All of us.”  
  
“Yeah,” John breathes, nipping at Roger’s jaw. “I can’t believe no one ever found out. We probably have you to thank for that.”  
  
“Being...ah...being careful has its perks, I guess.”  
  
“So many perks,” John assures him, finding his mouth and kissing him softly. “You always found us the best fucking places.”  
  
“The best places for fucking?”  
  
“Yeah,” John says, grinning against Roger’s skin, pressing kisses along his jaw to just under his ear and nuzzling there. “I wish I could fuck you right now. I wish I could lay you down and be inside you. Fuck.”  
  
Roger’s hips give an involuntary buck against him. “Why can’t you?”  
  
John drops his head onto Roger’s shoulder, exhaling hard at the thought that he would let him do that right here, take him right now, on the backseat of his car. “No lube,” he says regretfully. “No nothing.”  
  
“That’s not like you.”  
  
“Fuck you!” John says with a laugh. “This was only ever my fantasy scenario. Besides, I thought Andy was coming with us!”  
  
Roger laughs too, sliding a hand up through the hair at the back of John’s head and tugging gently, getting him to look back up and meet his eyes. “So?”  
  
“So I don’t think he’d be as up for this as you apparently still are.”  
  
“Huh,” Roger smirks and leans in to press their mouths together again, open and hot. “I wonder.”  
  
“Mmph. I missed your dirty mind,” John murmurs between kisses. “Everyone used to think you were so shy and innocent. I’m glad you let us see the other side.”  
  
“Glad you let me show it.”  
  
John remembers so clearly the first time they’d done this when they were kids, how Roger had been so up for it and so damned sexy, but so shy that he’d barely been able to meet John’s eyes while they’d jerked each other off in that grimy motel bathroom, and John had had to reassure him afterwards that things were still cool, that he hadn’t fucked anything up. They’d sat in a heap on the cold floor, legs and arms a tangle, breathing hard and looking at each other with anxious uncertainty at their new discovery.  
  
And now? Now Roger’s gaze is so fixed and confident and intense, John has to close his eyes briefly just to give his heart a chance to calm down, to escape that naked predatory passion. He doesn’t close himself off for long, though, loving those deep, dark brown eyes too much, loving the way they flicker from his own eyes to his lips to his hand, working between their bodies.  
  
Roger slides his own slowly down John’s chest, through the faint sheen of sweat, until his fingers find the head of John’s cock and he encloses it in his palm, stroking lightly, his thumb pressing up into the underside with perfect pressure. John bites his lip and drops his head back, pushing his hips up into Roger’s wonderful, callused grip. Roger wraps his free hand around one of the door handles for leverage, veins standing proud along his wrist and up to his elbow.  
  
John’s heart is working a mile a minute as he gazes at the debauched creature in his lap, sleeves still rolled up, shirt hanging open, framing either side of his naked chest, hips moving in a slow, hypnotic roll against him. He could watch Roger like this forever.  
  
He doesn’t want to come yet; doesn’t want to have to feel sticky and sated, to have to drive back home. He’s not exactly a slacker when it comes to stamina, but this is _Roger_ , _fuck_. He even has to close his eyes as he thinks of it, because if you’d asked him a few months ago if he ever thought he’d have Roger’s hands wrapped around his cock ever again, he’d have laughed you out of the room, and now...  
  
Now his partner in rhythmic crime is kneeling over him and doing an extremely skillful job in getting him off in double-quick time, with his incredible hands and gorgeous eyes.  
  
“Rog,” he breathes, reaching between them and stilling Roger’s hand by wrapping his own around it. “Stop...let me...”  
  
He uncurls Roger’s fingers one by one and takes both of them in his own hand again, loving that feeling of being so hard together, slick now from precum and their sweat-damp palms.  
  
“Gonna come soon,” he says, leaning forwards to lick a stripe up the left side of Roger’s ribcage, mumbling it against his skin. “Want you to, too.”  
  
“Yeah,” Roger answers, sounding way more undone than he looks, back arching slightly, “not a problem...”  
  
He closes his eyes and drops his head back, and John wraps his free hand around his waist and feels the movement of his hips, every undulating rock and thrust against him, pushing into John’s grip and sliding them together. John is so turned on by the fact that they’re still almost fully clothed, his forearm resting on Roger’s denim-clad thigh, his knuckles being caressed by the inside of his shirt, hanging loose around him. His fingers are slick now, both of them leaking against each other, and as he feels his sweat-damp shirt clinging to his back and the seat behind him, he glances down towards the floor.  
  
There’s a discarded t-shirt lying down there and much as John hates, hates to be practical he really, really can’t afford to get come on these leather seats, and he knows from experience what a disaster it is. His and Roger’s leather fetish combined with their penchant for tight leather pants had caused a lot of disasters, back in the day. Fun ones...but disasters all the same.  
  
He slides his free hand onto the small of Roger’s back to hold him steady and leans down to grab the shirt, dropping it next to his hip in readiness and rolling his eyes at Roger’s smirk.  
  
“Not a word,” he warns, his voice low and amused, not really willing to admit just how much that smirk affects him.  
  
Roger hooks an arm around John’s neck and leans in against him, pressing kisses just under his ear and sliding his free hand down his chest, thumb finding one of his nipples and brushing over it, again and again. That hand carries on down and he pulls back just enough to press their foreheads together, breathing hard against each other as his fingers join John’s in curling around them.  
  
“Come on, Johnny,” he urges softly, the affectionate diminutive of his name making John’s insides shiver pleasantly.  
  
“Come on, yourself,” he exhales, pulling back to watch as Roger lifts his hand to his mouth and closes his lips around his thumb, meeting John’s eyes with a wicked hint of a smile as he slides it back out and drops his hand, running it slick and hot and wet across the head of John’s cock and making his body arch at the sensation.  
  
“Fuck, fuck,” he breathes, his hips thrusting up hard and finally, suddenly he’s coming and the heat as he spills over their fingers has Roger coming too, his head thrown back again, his hand reaching for the t-shirt that John’s forgotten and dropping it in his lap as a reminder. John gasps and pants and swears as he tries to breathe and survive the mini-meltdown in his brain and mop up the sticky mess that’s coating his hand, Roger’s hand, their stomachs...  
  
His other hand’s pressed against Roger’s abdomen, feeling the heaving, full-body gasps for breath, and he wishes desperately that they were lying down so he could plaster himself up against that body and feel every rise and fall, damp skin sticking to damp skin, tangle their legs and rock his hips down against him, make the most of every last pulsing after-shock. He groans softly and tips his head back against the seat, closing his eyes and listening to their ragged breaths. He feels Roger move away from him slightly, still kneeling over him but leaning back, the heat between them stifling.  
  
The windows have steamed up, condensation dripping down the windscreen. John reaches out with a weak arm to crack the window next to them open just slightly, a cool waft of night air drifting in. He loves the clinging scent of sex, but it’s so damned hot in there now he thinks he might expire on the spot, his heart racing, his breathing quick. Roger doesn’t seem to be faring any better, leaning back against the back of the passenger seat with his eyes closed, his back curved and giving John a perfect view of his heaving chest and the line of his throat.  
  
John can’t resist the urge to run a long finger slowly from the soft spot between his collar bones, all the way down his breastbone and to his navel, skin soft and damp under his touch. Roger manages to lift his head to look at him with a lazy, sated smile, and suddenly all John wants to do is lay him down on the back seat and touch him all over, remind himself of every inch. He curls his fingers into his palms to restrain himself.  
  
He feels so close to him in that moment; closer to him now than he has in so long. He slides his hands onto Roger’s back and pulls him back in, leaning in to lick a stripe slowly up his chest as Roger’s hands delve into his hair, stroking gently.  
  
“D’you like it?” he asks, mouthing the ridge of Roger’s collar bone and breathing hot against the base of his throat.  
  
“Of course I like it,” Roger answers, his voice like pure sex, low and warm, as he runs his fingers through John’s hair slowly, rubbing his scalp just behind his ears. “Your hair’s always amazing, whatever the hell you do to it.”  
  
“I thought I’d have a go at ‘blondes have more fun’.”  
  
“Seems to be working.”  
  
“Yeah,” John says with a grin.  
  
He wants to say ‘I love you’, slide his tongue into Roger’s mouth and kiss him passionately, murmur it against his lips. The words are bursting inside him, his heart swelling with it, his stomach fluttering with excitement. It’s not ‘I love you’ as in ‘I want to buy a villa in Italy with you and spend the rest of our lives making wine and making love’, it’s ‘I love you’ as in ‘you’re one of my closest friends, I love having you near me, I love how we make each other feel. Don’t leave’.  
  
Now’s not the time to say ‘I love you’, though; it’s too intense, somehow, despite the mind-blowing sex. They’ll wait until after a show or something, maybe when Roger’s a little drunk and they’re both high on adrenaline, and they can hug and smack each other on the back and laugh about it. That way they’ll mean it, but it won’t be awkward. Not that John, particularly, is afraid of saying what he feels, but things are so tentative. As much as it hurts to even think of it, they can’t trust each other again yet, none of them can - not totally, not when one of them could take off forever in a moment’s notice if things don’t work out. To say ‘I love you’ and then be torn apart again would be too much of a blow to their pride.  
  
So they say it with lips and hands instead, a gentle press of a hand over a heart, entwining fingers, clutching grips on each other’s wrists and neck. Every touch says ‘stay’.  
  
“I missed you,” John whispers, because he has to say _something_ , eyes closed tightly as he presses a kiss to Roger’s throat.  
  
He feels the swallow, hears it, as Roger murmurs softly against his cheek: “I missed you too.”  
  
Their hearts are thumping against each other’s chests and John closes his eyes to feel it, to hear it. They’re out of time and perfect because of it, like one’s answering the other.  
  
They sit there for long, long minutes, waiting for their pulses to slow and their breaths to slow, never taking their hands off each other. Eventually, John nudges Roger into a lazy, open kiss, just to feel the press of their lips, missing it already.  
  
“Come on,” he says quietly. "Let's get some air."  
  
  
They leave the doors open to let the windows de-mist, sitting on the dry ground in front of the car and leaning back against the bumper, legs stretched out in front of them, staring up at the sky, side by side. They’ve left their shirts unbuttoned and untucked, loose around their shoulders, the buttons of their jeans left open. They’re dishevelled and don’t give a damn.  
  
“Hey, Rog?” John says, low and intimate, after a long, comfortable silence.  
  
“Yeah, John?” Roger responds softly, his left hand resting lightly on John’s thigh, up near the crease of his hip.  
  
“Have you ever had sex to one of our songs?”  
  
Roger is quiet for a long moment, thinking. “No, I don’t think so. Not unless you count Charlie breaking into song while I was going down on him, once.”  
  
John tips his head back and laughs at that, an owl hooting in response on the other side of the lake. “He makes a habit of that.”  
  
“I laughed so much I could barely finish him off. He had to bite down on his hand to keep quiet.”  
  
Smiling, John turns his head and lifts a hand to trace his thumb under Roger’s lower lip slowly. “I love that you two used to do that.”  
  
“You used to watch, didn’t you?”  
  
“I stumbled across you a few times, yeah,” John murmurs, heat in his eyes. “I ruined a perfectly good pair of leather pants the first time, seeing you on your knees, seeing what you were doing to him.”  
  
“We were really kind of sluts, weren’t we? All of us.”  
  
“We were young. Gagging for it constantly. Limiting ourselves to only fucking fifty per cent of the population wasn’t in our interest.”  
  
“You don’t think it’d be weird?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Having sex to one of our songs.”  
  
“I don’t know,” John shrugs a shoulder lightly. “I’ve always wanted to, and it’s not like Charlie’s voice is a turn-off or anything.”  
  
“Which song?”  
  
“I always thought ‘The Chauffeur’,” John says, closing his eyes sharply when Roger’s fingers trail slowly down the crease of his hip to the inside of his thigh. “I wanna put it on loop and fuck.”  
  
“ _Fuck_ ,” is Roger’s soft reply.    
  
“Would you do that with me?" John murmurs, leaning in to press his forehead to Roger's temple, words low in his ear. "Would you let me do that, fuck you, slow and deep inside you? All fucking night, you on your back, me pressing you down, pressing into you...”  
  
Roger’s breath hitches slightly, his hand stilling, warm and strong against the buttons of John’s fly.  
  
“There are hundreds of motels around here,” John continues, promising and mesmerising, tilting his head to find his lips and kissing him, long and lingering. “Whaddya say, RT?”  
  
Sliding a hand onto John’s face, cupping his cheek gently, Roger kisses him back, licking his way past John’s parted lips and into his mouth, feeling John’s jaw move against his, slow and devouring.  
  
“Do I want to watch you get turned on by Charlie's voice and spend all night fucking me?” he asks softly, looking deep into John’s dark eyes. “I dunno John,” he murmurs against John’s lips, kissing him between words, stroking the hard line of his jaw, “let me think about it for a sec...”  
  



End file.
